


Aurora Buzz

by thestarsjustblinkforus



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emma is not there yet. But she wants to be. Maybe., F/M, Killian is in agony but patient., Romance, Takes place between S3's 'Save Henry' and 'The New Neverland', Title is in reference to the phenomenon not the princess, but alas, issues be bitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29450754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarsjustblinkforus/pseuds/thestarsjustblinkforus
Summary: She tells herself she can be brave on this flying ship in the early morning dark when everything is quiet and still and otherworldly. Nothing that happens here, nothing he says or makes her feel or want will be tethered to the earth and when they land she can let it go, let this go like releasing a balloon until it gets smaller and smaller like it was never there at all...
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones & Emma Swan, Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Aurora Buzz

She tucks Henry in under a mountain of quilts as Regina settles back into Hook’s chair to watch over him as he sleeps. They’re both in agreement that it’s unlikely the danger has truly passed and that one of them should stand guard until Neverland is far behind them, and in her usual blunt fashion Regina had insisted Emma be the one to go and rest as she would be of no use to anyone anyway if she were to pass out the second she was _actually_ needed, _Which isn’t right now, Miss Swan_. She had only agreed because she can feel herself starting to crash from the constant adrenaline that has been coursing through her system for what feels like weeks and she knows Regina will keep their son safe even if just from a nightmare. It’s admittedly a relief to be able to count on that, on her.

She takes her leave with a nod that’s returned and makes her way up from the Captain’s Quarters to the main deck to find her parents standing at the bow of the Jolly Roger their heads close as they talk quietly, and she turns away not wanting to intrude.

She doesn’t want to think about the fear they must both be feeling right now, that _she_ is feeling right now; fear that David might not be ok, that the plan to keep him alive might not _work_ , that Gold, who has disappeared somewhere below deck where a handful of Lost Boys (at least one of them potentially murderous) have hunkered down, will betray them. 

She continues on, desperately searching for a quiet corner to sink into as her knees start to tremble in earnest, her hands start to shake and she shoves her fears away as best she can reminding herself that there’s nothing she or anyone else can do right now but wait and hope and rest up for whatever is coming next, because there is _always something coming next_ , always some danger, some villain, some _curse_ …

She stumbles upon Neal resting against the base of the mainmast where he had been keeping an eye on the shadow-sail just in case and another stone drops in her stomach as he shifts in his sleep and mumbles what sounds like her name.

_“I’m never going to stop fighting for you. Never…”_

Every word had been a ripple spreading out inside of her, trying to make space that she doesn’t think she even has anymore, not for him, and maybe not for anyone. All his declaration had done was remind her that he _had_ and that she is never _ever_ going to put herself in a position like that again.

She crumples down behind a pile of sandbags a safe distance away and suddenly feels an urge to laugh, to sob, to _scream_ with the exhaustion of it all; saving Henry from _Peter Pan_ , finding Neal _alive_ , almost losing David, and _maybe losing him still_ , and _Hook_ …

She tilts her head back to look at the net of stars above her, the perfect white circle of the moon larger than it’s ever seemed before stamped into the sky and she breathes, she breathes, she breathes until her heart stops pounding and her fists unclench. She allows herself to sink deep, deep, down into the Mariana Trench of herself, down below the ripples, the disturbances, down to where she doesn’t have to consider the wants or needs or desires of _anyone_ , least of all herself and she can finally, finally, just _sleep_ …

*******

When she wakes the stars are just as bright, the moon just as undeniable and the sky not a fraction lighter. It could have only been minutes that have passed for all she knows, and she sits up with a soft groan and a crick in her neck which she rubs absently, suddenly too awake to try and sleep again.

She catches motion and a flash of silver out of the corner of her eye - Hook at the helm, steering the ship, guiding them home. He’s been there for hours, no one to relieve him but possibly Neal whose halfhearted offer had been smoothly rebuffed.

He looks exhausted but determined, his eyes straight ahead, gaze unwavering and she follows it to where her parents still stand together at the bow and suddenly understands that he’s watching David for signs of weakness. He’s waiting for his collapse once they cross that line into the next realm and is preparing for it despite the precautions they have taken to buy him time. He’s too alert, too focused on them not to be. Even from here, she can see how tense he is and knows that what happened to his brother, seared into his memory, is most likely playing on a loop right now because that’s what happens to her when she’s anticipating the worst, every single reason she has to believe something will go terribly wrong an unrelenting supercut playing in her head. At the quick rise and fall of his chest, she remembers his alluding to the horror of that final moment, she remembers the look on his face, the walling off behind his eyes and the clench of his jaw an echo of when she’d prodded him into explaining the name tattooed on his forearm and it occurs to her suddenly that everyone he has ever loved has died in his arms.

He brings an ever-present bottle of rum to his lips after biting the cork free and drinks deep, his constant need for it becoming very clear to her now and she wants to go to him but has been shoving everything having to do with any kind of want deep, deep down into the ocean of herself for so long it’s like second nature to her now. It stops her from doing it even as his concern, naked and private and _genuine_ because there is no one watching and thus nothing to be gained from it, draws every feeling she’s been submerging since he held his hand out to her in the giant's den with a gentle _"Come,"_ to the surface.

She finds herself thinking desperately, reflexively and unfairly suspiciously at this point in response to that uprising, _Why should he be anxious for David’s wellbeing anyway?_ and a small voice in the back of her mind rightly chastises her and whispers, _You know why_ …

He tilts his head back for more, his throat working as a bead of liquid slides down his Adam’s apple and disappears into the careless V of his loosely buttoned shirt, his bare skin a pale glowing blue in the moonlight just like in the cave and she lets herself remember that in that moment after his confession her impulse had been to go to him then too, to touch him. Maybe she might have had they been alone because there were moments in Neverland where she had felt _wild_ _,_ but there had been more pressing concerns at the time, and really there has been nothing _but_ pressing concerns yanking her thankfully away from having to consider any implications or desires of her own.

But there’s no need to frantically tie anchors to those things now, to drag them down into the depths of herself, and so she’s letting herself remember all of it, everything, hidden as she is with her eyes on him as he stands tall and in command at the helm with his duster blown back and his hair windswept and wild under the moon.

She lets herself remember his eyes and leather under her hands, soft and supple as she’d gripped and pulled him into her, the bristle of his stubble and the taste of rum in her mouth, in his mouth and his hand landing softly in her hair and then her waist, holding while she continued to pull, to grip, his hook a cold burn against her skin where her shirt had ridden up, his breathless murmur against her lips as he dipped his head for _more_...

She had stepped back and it had felt like wrenching herself away from a magnet, her entire body on _fire_ …

“You want some of this, Swan? Or are you just content to stare?”

She jolts as he calls out to her with a grin, head tilted to see her better behind the low wall of sandbags and _so much for being **hidden**..._

She swallows hard, her cheeks blazing at being caught _looking_ , an automatic if toothless, “ _You wish”_ , on her lips before she clocks the bottle he’s holding out to her; the rum the offer and not himself.

She gets to her feet awkwardly and leans against the railing for a moment as though trying to offset the nonexistent pitch and roll of the air and not just delaying coming to him long enough to compose herself.

_“You’re something of an open book…”_

She takes a deep breath and thinks about calling out an excuse to decline, to retreat below deck, everything inside of her screaming at her to do it but for that one voice at the back of her mind and for once she listens to it, she mutters _fuck it,_ and climbs the handful of steps to where he stands waiting.

She takes the proffered bottle from him but studiously avoids his eyes which he notices because of course he does.

“You alright, love?”

She takes a swig and it burns as it goes down in a way she knows now to expect and rather enjoys, and asks instead of answering, her face still too warm, “Is this bottle enchanted or something? You never seem to run out…”

She hands it back and he pockets it with an “Aye, it is,” but doesn’t offer any further explanation, any story behind it. He’s quiet as he waits for her eyes which she still won’t give him, and sighs as he looks out again. She follows his gaze once more to her parents who embrace and feels a surge of affection and love for them so sharply she almost gasps with it, her eyes stinging as all the worry she’s been suppressing rushes back in.

“Swan?”

“You’ve been watching them… him…” She nods at them.

“Aye.”

“You don’t think it will work. The vial of wat-”

He stiffens slightly beside her, his hand suddenly gripping the wheel tighter.

“We’re about to find out…” She looks up at him and a muscle clenches in his jaw as he nods at the sky before them with a rough, “Up ahead…” and she turns hers to see a faint arc of light suddenly shimmer into view, a glowing green aurora growing in intensity as they approach.

They’re about to leave Neverland.

Light spills across the ship like slow-moving water engulfing her parents completely and she keeps her eyes on them as it creeps steadily towards the helm. When it finally arrives a startling but not unpleasant buzz rushes through her and her hair crackles with electricity, floating about her face like being underwater. She looks up at Hook at the pressure of his hand she didn’t even realize she was holding and he looks down at her, his own hair waving and sparking little stars leaving him flushed with exhilaration when it passes.

They look at each other, breathing heavily, still buzzing as the last remaining sparks fizz out and away from them, chasing after the light as the ship passes through completely and they take an unconscious step towards each other, magnets again, before suddenly turning away at the same time like a dance as they _remember_ …

and catch David and Mary Margaret just as they descend below deck laughing quietly to themselves.

She's so relieved she’s almost dizzy with it, and murmurs, “Now all we have to worry about is Gold…”

“The Crocodile will uphold his end. I’ll see to it.” He looks down at their fingers still entwined and it half sounds like a question he doesn’t want an answer to but feels compelled to ask when he reluctantly continues with, “Or… Baelfire will, I imagine…”

_Neal…_

She had forgotten about Neal entirely.

Her hand slips free from his as she automatically steps towards the railing to where he is still lying asleep below and she feels an immediate flare of resentment that reminds her of her secret and she doesn’t know what to do with it.

She just knows she doesn’t want to think about it at all for as long as possible and suddenly deeply regrets letting go of Hook’s hand.

He clears his throat, calls out, “Need to go check on anyone, love? You’re parents, or… the lad?” 

She turns and leans against the railing to face him, “I’m sure they want to be alone…” and he quirks a brief smile of knowing agreement and an "Aye," before she pushes herself off it to come a little closer. "Regina is with Henry… Neal is… he’s asleep…”

He nods, squinting up at the sky and adjusts his position with a slight turn of the wheel. His hook gleams in the starlight and she flashes on it again cold against her skin, his breath hot against her cheek, trickle of sweat at the back of her neck and creak of leather under her fists…

“So, you’re free then.”

“To do what?” she asks a little breathlessly and maybe still buzzing a little, her natural adrenaline which she has long since come down from replaced with the current that had snaked through their blood. It’s still there making her feel electric and alive and a little reckless maybe and when their eyes meet again she remembers the whisper of his tongue and the way his hand had spasmed against her thigh and briefly gripped when she had kissed him harder and he says, his tone loaded like he knows exactly what she's thinking,

"To stay with me.”

It sits there in the space between them, throbbing with possibility, and he pauses when she doesn’t respond to the clear invitation, when she _can’t_ because she’s finding she wants to too much. She feels like she's practically _vibrating_ with it, sparking like she’s still caught in the aurora and she tells herself that’s all it is, this sudden willingness to entertain this, him. It’s the aftereffects of exhaustion met with the magic that had rained down on them making her feel invincible and fearless for the first time in ages and she knows he feels it too, that buzz, that hum like a live wire between them that's been there from the very beginning but he clears his throat again, recalibrates a little painfully because _she still hasn't responded._

“Unless… you must be tired, Swan… I imagine that catnap on the sandbags was far from adequate or comfortable...”

“Do I _look_ tired?” and she closes the distance between them then because she’s _not_ , she is _wide awake_ and _she doesn’t want him to_ _recalibrate-_

“You look beautiful."

He says it simply, softly, a statement of fact.

She had been expecting heat, smoulder, innuendo. A pirate smile paired with a filthy raise of an eyebrow once she finally met him here and she turns her head to the nighttime clouds highlighted by the moon and looking like frozen cresting waves not knowing how to respond because he’s doing that thing he does when he’s _not_ playing when he is speaking plainly and honestly and she can feel herself start to panic a little bit because when he's like this everything he says he _means_ and he continues undaunted, his voice going softer and softer until it’s almost unbearable, “You _are_ beautiful. And brave. And honourable. And valiant _-_ ”

“You’re gonna give me a complex…” she murmurs, still blushing, still looking at clouds, the star-studded night, and not him.

“I’ll give you anything you want, Swan.”

She takes a shaky breath, her heart racing.

And she deflects.

“ _Valiant,_ huh? Makes me sound like a knight…”

“Aye.”

“I thought you said I’d make a good _pirate_ …”

He grins, “That too… though you might be more inclined to knighthood than a band of troublemakers like myself, yes?”

“I don’t mind a little trouble…” His eyebrow lifts at that and she adds hastily, sidestepping like her life depends on it, feeling like maybe it does a little bit because he’s still too _soft_ , “Although I’m not much of a joiner…”

“Ah, yes, _Emma Swan the eternal_ _loner_ … Once a _Lost Girl_ alwa-” He stops himself, shakes his head, “That’s not true. You’re not at all lost are you, Swan? Not anymore. You have your family… people who care for you… people who’d fight for you hard as you do them…”

“Are you?”

“Someone who’d fight for you? I think we’ve establi-”

“ _Once a Lost Boy…_ ” she breaks in a little desperately and he shakes his head again.

“I was never part of that particular tribe… though I might have been once had I been unlucky enough to cross Pan’s path back then…” He sounds strained for a moment, forces a lightness into his voice that she knows he doesn’t feel as he continues, “But I had a brother who kept me on the straight and narrow for a while… and then I had a love…" He takes a sudden deep breath and turns to her, “ _Emma_ …” and she stops him again because she _can’t_ , the aurora buzz is wearing off and taking her courage with it and whatever he is about to say she can't hear it without it and she isn’t sure she wants to, that she _can_ anyway, and so she says quickly, thickly, “I never thanked you...” 

He pauses, his “For what, love?” a gentle acquiescence.

“For everything. All of it. We wouldn’t have won without you. We wouldn’t have gotten Henry back. We wouldn’t even have _gotten_ to him i-”

“I don’t know about that, Swan, you’re a resourceful lass-”

“ _I_ know.” She lays a hand on his forearm, wanting him to know she means it because she does, profoundly, “ _Thank you_.”

She can tell he’s tempted by the sly rise of his eyebrow to purr, _haven’t we already established how to give proper thanks…?_ and she wants him to do it, wants to get to that place again, that safe place where it’s just flirtation or even just _lust_ because she can _deal with lust_ , she can play with that, indulge in _that_ , but he smiles briefly instead and dips his head in acknowledgement, almost shy, bashful like he had been when David had called out his good deed, toasting him in front of them all and it makes her want to cup his face in the palm of her hand and draw him down to her closer, closer and that small voice in the back of her mind flickering like a candle whispers, _yes,_ even as every version of herself that has ever been let down, ever been hurt cries out, _run run run…_

A slight groan of the wheel shifts him nearer and her hand slides down his arm to land on the felloe next to his. Her finger grazes his wrist and just like that, with the smallest of touches she’s caught in the current that rushes to him even as her instincts still beg her to _swim away_ before she drowns, but that’s not how currents work and she decides to just give in, to not fight it anymore if only for right now before they’re back in Storybrook and things go back to normal, whatever that even means anymore.

She tells herself she can be brave on this flying ship in the early morning dark when everything is quiet and still and otherworldly. Nothing that happens here, nothing he says or makes her feel or want will be tethered to the earth and when they land she can let it go, let this go like releasing a balloon until it gets smaller and smaller like it was never there at all and he says, after a moment, “Would you like to try her, Emma?”

She blinks, wondering if he’s just thrown her a life preserver or if she’s not as much an open book as he had claimed because commanding the Jolly Roger is _not_ on her list of desires at the moment, but she says, breathlessly, “Yes. Yeah,” maybe a little grateful to be drawn back from the edge of the precipice after all.

He shifts back slightly, still keeping his hook on the wheel until she steps into place and grasps the handles.

“Now, you’ll want to-”

“I’ve got it.” She says quickly and her whole body immediately jerks to the left at the sudden sharp pull when she nudges him into letting go. He’s there instantly, his body keeping her from careening to the deck and she laughs, startled, into his chest, embarrassed but lingering there for a moment anyway, breathing in the scent of sea-salted skin and leathers rich and dark and deep before drawing back with a sheepish, “Ok, maybe not…”

He comes round to stand at her back as she tightens her grip, his right hand landing lightly over hers on the handle but still letting her guide, his hook at her hip now, that slight pressure keeping her steady. She thinks if he takes a deep breath she’ll feel it he’s so close, and desperately concentrates on the tension under her hands as he slips a foot against hers, his knee between her knees, prodding her stance into widening and _so much for that life preserver..._

“ _As I was saying_ … " he smirks, "You’ll want to prepare yourself… by widening your stance... and locking your elbows… It’s a bit windy... but nothing you can’t handle at this point…”

It’s strangely more difficult than when she had manhandled the thing during that horrible storm – then she had just thrown the entirety of her body weight to one side, almost bracing herself against the wheel itself but now the wind seems to want to go left and then immediately right and then left again, making her constantly shift her weight in a delicate balance of muscle and attention to what the Jolly Roger needs and what the wind wants.

“I just have to hold her steady, right?” she asks and he hums an affirmative in her ear, stepping in a little closer to point, his arm brushing hers as he raises it, his chest finally there against her back and tempting her to sink into it, “You see that arc of stars just there…”

“Yeah.”

“That’s where we’re going.”

“So just… aim for it?”

“Yes.”

“How long do you think it will take to get there?”

“Tired already?”

“Aren’t you?” she asks, again thinking of him standing here for the last several hours with this tension in his grasp keeping them steady and on course after several sleepless nights and several near-death experiences of his own and he dips his head to her ear once more, his lips brushing against the curve, his voice low, _“I can go all night, love.”_

She shivers, and he feels it, but he doesn’t press on, maybe a little startled that something has finally seemed to land, that he’s achieved the desired effect with his flirting for once, and he says, sounding slightly alarmed by his success, “Emma?”

_Oh, **fuck** it._

He takes hold of the wheel completely as she lets go to turn in the circle of his arms, her back to it now and her eyes level with his mouth. He takes a sudden sharp breath, so close his chest brushes against hers when he does it and she knows he isn’t going to make the first move; he isn’t going to initiate anything until she does, and she realizes that that has always been true. He waits for her to give him permission, access. He does it even when he knows it won't come. He doesn’t just _take_ no matter how much he wants to and it’s at odds with everything she knows of pirates.

_“When I win your heart, Emma… and I **will** win it… it will not be because of any trickery... It will be because you want me…”_

And she does, she does, she does and he _knows_...

His eyes flicker down to her lips, his own parting in anticipation before finding her eyes again and he doesn’t look smug from being proven right, he looks awed and breathless and she thinks if she were to close her eyes she would see the sparks again softly green and glowing and that wire humming between them, connecting them, pulling them closer, closer.... but her 18-year-old self hisses viciously that she doesn’t get to have things like this without something going terribly wrong, without being betrayed and _left_ and she swallows hard, her mouth going dry.

Because she's not brave. Not when it comes to this. Not when it might be more than just...

Her eyes leave his to trace his cheekbone to his ear, to the earring he always wears, and his voice sounds distant, miles away when he says her name.

She latches desperately onto the curve of gold dipping under his earlobe to meet at the back in what looks like a screw, suddenly completely fixated on that with the wheel thrumming under her back, his body a furnace and her heart beating too hard as she says a little too loudly, “Is that a clip-on?”

He pauses, draws back slightly to look at her, “A what on?”

“The earring - is it real?”

He frowns, confused and then insulted as he steps back slightly, pulling it from his ear as his hook maintains command of the ship.

“Of course, it’s real.” He leans in close again, tilting his head to show her. “Getting your piercing is a rite of passage, Swan. No true pirate goes without…. ‘ _Is it_ _real’…_ ”

“Well, it looks like it’s a… screw-on kind of thing, the earring.”

He opens his palm to look at it and indeed it is a screw and not a post, a hook.

“Well, yes, _this_ one…”

“It’s your favorite or something?”

“... I am fond of it, yes.”

“The stone, or the gold or?”

“Emma. You want to be talking about my taste in jewelry at this moment? Stars above, everyone below deck but you and I…” He doesn’t sound irritated, disappointed, just gentle, _patient_ , and she can’t handle it, he was right about that too, and she says, still slightly panicked and completely humiliated for it, _“Neal isn’t,”_ because invoking his name is the surest way to get out of this, to break this, and it does.

He steps back.

He gives her space to retreat like he knows she needs but he holds his hand out to her before she goes, the onyx teardrop glittering in his palm.

“If you wouldn’t mind returning this to its rightful place before you go, love, I’d be much obliged…” a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he taps his earlobe and raises his eyebrows innocently, “Wind’s picking up and the Roger needs my full attention…”

He’s trying to go back for her, to regress to an easy meaningless flirtation, he’s offering that to her by giving her a way out with an eye roll and a smile, and not this semi-panicked fleeing, but she can’t do it.

He is the wind and she is the ship. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

She steps up to him, takes the earring from him and gently replaces it, letting her fingers brush against his ear as she does, his neck, his hair as she turns the screw until it’s secured. She lingers a beat too long when she's done and feels cruel for it as his eyes close on an exhale and her fingers slide away.

She feels his sigh deep in her belly, and she breathes, “ _Killian…_ ” 

_I'm sorry..._

“It’s alright, Emma,” he says it softly as she steps back, she steps away.

She retreats down the stairs to the main deck and then the hold. She sits down on the floor in front of the door to the Captain’s Quarter’s, his room where her son sleeps soundly, safely, and she rests her forehead against her knees as she tells herself when they’re back in Storybrook it will be like nothing happened between them.

A heated kiss. A secret. A declaration. An aurora buzz. An _almost._

None of it will mean anything as soon as they land. It can't.

They're just one-time things and once she can make him believe that he probably won’t even stay anyway.

The thought should offer a measure of relief, but it sinks like a stone and the ripples shift things out of place, make room for things she tells herself she _doesn't want_ , not anymore, not with _anyone_ , and that small voice in the back of her mind that calls him _Killian_ and never _Hook_ whispers, _liar,_ as she buries her face in her hands.

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaand I ended up writing [a little ficlet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29561442) re: the earring....


End file.
